


Only This Port in a Storm

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt provided by beaubete via 00qnewyearparty.tumblr.com<br/>Her prompt:<br/>Q woos James using obscure carols/holiday songs and Bond and Q are working a dangerous case in a cabin and accidentally get snowed in (hijinks ensue)<br/>They’d like to see fluff, smut, get-together. Please no Alec.</p><p>NOTE: It's not exactly a "cabin" that they're trapped in, but I hope you like it just the same!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beaubete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/gifts).



Q felt seasick as the pitch and roll of the boat heaved to and fro on the choppy seas. All their hard work would come to naught if they drowned now. Q clutched at the hard-sided case and stood on the stair that led above decks. He could see the left side of Bond’s face in the light from the small dashboard as Bond struggled with the wheel. “Stay where you are, Q,” shouted Bond over the storm. “I don’t need you overboard.”

The boat pitched violently and Q was thrown off balance, his spine thudding against the wall, cushioned only by his life jacket and what clothes he had on his back. A wave of water fell over Bond, ran down the stairs and pushed past Q’s knees. It was ice cold. “Get the hell out of that doorway and close the hatch, Q!” shouted Bond. “She’ll take on water and then we’ll both be fucked!”

Q made his way back down and closed himself in. Water had seeped through the carpet and inches of it were splashing side to side as the small craft navigated the waves. Q sat on the small bunk which served as a bed and took stock of what little he could do to help Bond and salvage the mission.

Obviously, the most important item was the one he was clutching. Without it, the mission was a bust and the Chinese technological syndicate would be one more step ahead of them. Q snatched the weatherproof plastic bags he had brought. Q Branch had developed them for just such an occasion; they were made of heavy plastic, sealed watertight, and had built-in handles at the top. They were also equipped with mini-beacons for easy spotting in open water - as soon as sea water hit them, they lit up. Q grabbed them and stuffed the case in one, his laptop in another, what few food supplies they had left, a survival kit, and a first aid kit went in a third. The latter two bags were tucked into a duffel the strap of which went about Q’s shoulders and across his chest. He sat back on the bed, hugging the bag with the case in it across his chest and awaited Commander Bond’s next order.

If it were possible for the pitch and roll of the boat to get worse, the storm outside managed it. MI6 had known there was a possibility that the weather would cause problems. This made the operation highly time-sensitive and Q silently cursed Bond and his ability to cut things fine. Three hours ago they would have missed this storm entirely. But no, Bond was convinced that Chen’s mistress wanted to defect and come with them. Now all they had was a dead girl and a boat in the throes of its own death on the high seas.

More weather came seeping from under the door, the stairs creating a pretty waterfall of sea foam and marine detritus. Ordinarily, Q would be safely ensconced in MI6, cozy behind his terminal at Q Branch, blissfully content to offer what assistance he could to Bond, but suffering no ill effect due to the inclement weather. He would rather have this terrible storm as part of an AAR – to be read, not written. Q shivered and felt sick all over again, his ankles swimming in seawater, feet braced against the floor as the boat continued its severe lurching.

A thudding crash and scraping sound shook the tiny craft Q could hear bond’s muffled cries for him. Q shouldered the duffel, gripped the other bag tightly against his chest, and made his way unsteadily to the door, loose items in the room smashing into him, his body flung as a ragdoll first one way, then the next. Q finally opened the door and was instantly drenched to the skin up to his thighs in ice cold water. “Bond!” he cried. Bond appeared in the opening and extended his hand. Q handed him the case and Bond waved it away.

“Give me your hand!” he shouted.

Q did as he was aksed, Bond’s strong grip wrapping about his forearm securely. He pulled Q bodily up onto the deck of the small boat. They clung to one another for balance. The wind whipped around them, driving the cold rain into them like so many fine icy needles. Bond maneuvered Q toward the side of the vessel. “Come on! We’ve got to jump for it. It’s the best I could do.”

Q peered through wet lenses at the storm about him. He couldn’t make out much, but he trusted Bond to lead him in the correct direction. There was something large and grey to the starboard side, waves were spewing spray against its surface. Beyond the edge,  Q could barely distinguish grey from black from charcoal. Bond was pointing and shouting for him to jump, but Q couldn’t tell where he was meant to land. “007, I don’t see…,” he started, “I can’t see a bloody thing!”

Q thought he heard the agent curse softly behind him. Bond shoved him aside and nearly knocked him backward. As it was he had a death’s grip on the small railing at the side of the craft. Bond leapt over the side and disappeared. “Bond!” screamed Q. He was alone and blind on a slick boat that wanted to smash him against the rocks below; Q had never been so frightened.

The boat lifted up on another wave and crashed down hard against what Q could only imagine was grey jaws of certain death. The lights on the boat allowed him to catch a glimpse of Bond in his white shirt standing in the midst of blackness. Q hoped his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He had his hands cupped to his mouth. Q barely heard him cry: “Q! Jump! I’ll catch you!” Q laced his whole hand through the handle of the bag with the case for security’s sake. He timed his leap with another pitch of the boat, flinging himself with all his might where Bond’s white shirt was just a moment ago.

It all happened in a matter of seconds. In his freefall, ice bit at his skin as the frozen rain came down, followed by more salty spray and in the next breathless second, he felt warm wet strong arms about him and a body underneath him as they rolled together. The duffel and its contents landed on Q’s back and rolled off to the right. The case landed hard on Q’s left and cracked on the hard surface. Another wave beat down on them both. A searing crack came from behind them; what light that had been coming from the boat suddenly went out.

Q’s hand shot out and snatched up the bag with the case. “Son of a bitch!” he cried.

“Are you alright?” said Bond. He was still holding the quartermaster tightly, his arms tangled in the straps of the duffel.

“The case! The fucking case, Bond!” cried Q as he struggled to look at it, the sea swirling about them. “If the component is damaged-“

“Nevermind that, you idiot!” said Bond as another deluge from the sea swept over them.

Q looked at him fiercely. They brushed noses. Q backed away instinctively. “If it’s damaged we’ve lost, 007.”

“Then let’s get somewhere where you can check it properly,” said Bond. “Get up and off, will you? We need to get out of here!” Q and he got unsteadily to their feet, the waves sweeping past them in cold bursts. Bond took Q by the hand, Q held onto his glasses and they slowly made their way toward the grey wall and away from the boat. Q realized that this was some kind of a concrete pier. It led to a great archway that gave them some shelter against the storm that whirled about them mercilessly.

The great door that was housed in the archway loomed above them but Bond moved to the side of it to access what appeared to be a regular-sized door in its own little recess and secured by a padlock. He turned to Q. “I don’t suppose that you packed my lockpick set and mini-torch, did you?”

Q set the duffel down with a wet thud and opened it. He rummaged and came up with a small leather case. He couldn’t see it, but Bond surely grinned at him. Bond didn’t think Q noticed, but the quartermaster never missed when that pleased smirk appeared on Bond’s face whenever Q was being clever. In a matter of seconds, Q had reason to smirk himself as Bond had opened the door with ease. It was only after he had passed over the coaming edge and heard it clang behind him did he realize that it was at least six inches thick – it was a bulkhead door. It would have been pitch dark inside if it weren’t for the light from Bond’s torch and the intermittent flash from the Q Branch-designed bag. Bond scanned the torchlight about the room, sloshed through what little water came through with them when they entered, and walked toward the opposite wall.

“It’s bolted and sealed,” said Bond. He stood before another gigantic door, the twin to the one they managed to avoid by using the side door.

“Fantastic,” said Q, digging for a second torch. Finding it, he turned it on and left the bags to add more light to Bond’s situation. “We have a small amount of plastic explosive. That would break the seal.”

“Just what I was thinking, Q,” said Bond. “The downside of course would be that it would ring in our ears for a day or two.”

“Then we’ll only use as much as is necessary,” reasoned Q. “There’s no need for overkill.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re no fun, Q?” said Bond.

“Just you occasionally,” said Q. “And 006 - constantly.”

Bond allowed himself a chuckle and set up the charge. “Come on,” he urged Q and pushed him back outside into the storm, huddled over him, and they both held their ears. A dull thud out of sync with the storm signaled their return. Their gambit worked: the doors were singed and ajar.

They hurried inside, hopping over the coaming edges of the bulkhead. Bond pressed the doors closed and Q followed the light of his torch and set the bags down on a sofa against a wall. “Where the hell are we?” he asked as he panned his light about the room. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was-“

“-a hotel,” Bond finished for him.

“Yes,” said Q, venturing behind the reception desk and wiping his glasses on a tissue from a box he spotted as he passed. “I wonder…”

“What are you doing, Q?” Bond asked him as the quartermaster’s head dipped below the counter.

“Just looking for access to phone lines or internet,” he replied mechanically. He listened at the phone for a dial tone and set it back in its cradle with a grimace.

Bond shook his head. “Q I’m sure that it’s all shut down for the season.” He watched him duck under the counter once more to presumably to check for a modem. Bond shrugged. “Well you do that, I’m going to get warmed up.” He paused before going down a corridor. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Hmm?” asked Q.

“Nevermind,” said Bond, and he disappeared down the hall.

 

~080~

 

“Bond?” said Q. “Damn it, Bond! Where are you?”

“In here, Q,” said Bond as he added another log to the fire and softly sang: “ _Have yourself a merry little Christmas…_ ”

“Where-?“ asked Q as he stumbled into the room, mission case and modem in hand. He stopped stock still and took in the sight of Bond in a white bathrobe feeding sticks of wood into a fireplace and singing Christmas carols. He shivered involuntarily at the sight. But that could also be because he was still soaking wet from the storm outside. He had gotten distracted trying to restore communication to the building and had quite forgotten the soppy condition of his clothing.

“Get in here, you great idiot,” said Bond. The agent took the items from his hands and set them on a small overstuffed chair next to the door. “You’ll catch your death, you know.” He tugged at Q’s jumper and shirt, pulling the latter from his waistband.

“Hey!” said Q.

“Will you stop?” said Bond. “You have no idea what hypothermia can do to a man, do you?”

“Oh and I suppose that after you killed Silva that you ran straight for a hot bath?” Q said.

Bond stopped and stared at him. “No,” he said menacingly, “I decided to helplessly watch our boss die in my arms.”

Q blinked. “Right.” He allowed Bond to strip him roughly of his shirt and jumper.

“Finish the rest,” said Bond. Clearly he had lost whatever patience he had had with Q. He turned from him and stomped off toward what Q assumed to be the bathroom. Q removed the rest of his clothing save his smalls. He walked to the fire and stood before it shivering when Bond came up to him with a bathrobe. “Have you figured out the problem?” he asked.

“The case took a hit and jarred one of the internal components loose,” said Q, wrapping the robe loosely about him. “I’m going to have to solder it back in place, but it’s a delicate operation. The modem seems fine but-“

“Q?”

“-what I need to find is a solid Ethernet connection. Do you think that the ice storm would have any effect on-“

“Q?”

“-underwater communication cables? No. I suppose it wouldn’t.”

“Q!”

“What?”

“Do you think that’s your only worry?” asked Bond.

“Say again?”

Bond took a breath. “The power’s out, Q,” he said patiently. “Shouldn’t we restore that? I mean… I may be a relic, but even I know that computers and such won’t work if one is living in the 17th Century.”

“Yes,” said Q, blushing.

“And while you were busy running before you could walk, I was busy too,” said Bond. “Come with me.” He crooked a finger at Q and led him to the bathroom. A large cook pot full of steaming water sat on the floor before the tub. “In,” commanded Bond.

Q divested himself of the robe and pants and put a foot in the soaking tub. “It’s warm,” he marveled.

“And it’s about to get warmer,” said Bond. “In all the way, please.”

Q sat in the half-filled bath. Bond heaved up the cook pot and dumped its contents into the tub at Q’s feet. “Oh wonderful,” said Q.

“Not too hot?” asked Bond.

“No,” said Q. “But how-? Oh… I see. You heated up the water over the fire.”

“On some woodchip embers, yes,” said Bond, seating himself on the edge of the bath and facing away from Q. “Spoiled the bottom of the pot, but I’m sure the hotel management will understand.” He set the pot down on the floor.

“But where did the wood come from?” asked Q.

“Same place I got the cook pot: they have a brick oven and keep a cord of wood beside it,” said Bond. “I’m sure there’s another stockpile for guests for the rooms, but I didn’t look around for too long. Perhaps when our clothes dry, we’ll get a chance to explore more. Lord knows we’ll be here long enough.”

“I hope not for too long,” said Q. “Seems to me you would have put out a distress call to MI6 just before we abandoned ship. They should be looking for us.”

“No distress call went out, Q,” said Bond, glumly.

“I’m sorry?” said Q.

“”The radio caught a bullet as we were leaving port. Just before the other ship got blown to bits,” he said.

“Oh,” said Q. “So…”

“So there were two deaths on board tonight: Seong-Fan and the radio,” said Bond.

“I am sorry about her, 007,” said Q quietly.

“That’s alright, Q,” said Bond. He stood and walked away.

“Where are you going?” asked Q.

“To restore power,” said Bond. “And to find some damn whiskey.”

 

~080~

 

The fire crackled in the hearth and Q felt his body begin to relax, his earlier adrenaline rush dissipated. When the lights finally came on, Q noticed the hotel room was well-appointed and had it been in season, he was sure that it would have been a lovely and secluded place to stay. He closed his eyes and wrapped the towel and robe more securely around his shoulders. The storm still beat a devil’s tattoo outside the walls, but its noise was distant rhythmic thunder and melded brilliantly with the sound of the fire. The peace and quiet was heavenly and the heat from the fire made him sleepy.

“ _Have yourself a merry little Christmas…_ ” sang Bond as he came in carrying a tea tray. “ _Let yourself be-do-be-doo…_ ”

“Considering that we’re effectively stranded here until I can restore communication with the outside world, you’re awfully chipper,” said Q.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” asked Bond. “After all, you’re a genius at solving technical problems and ‘tis the season.” He held out a beaker of tea to Q.

“You made tea?” asked Q.

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Well I am British.” Q took the cup and noticed a second cup.

“You drink tea?” said Q incredulously.

Bond gave him a hard stare. “I’m British.”

“Right then,” said Q, smiling around his mug, “no need to get testy. Well anyway, Christmas was five days ago.”

“And it’s still the Christmas season,” observed Bond. He made himself comfortable in an overstuffed chair across from Q. “Why are you such a Scrooge?”

“I’m not a Scrooge,” said Q. “Nor have I had a fifth of scotch before switching to tea - which explains your caroling.” He sipped at the cup thoughtfully then added: “I’m not a Scrooge, but I do see very little point in exchanging gifts with people who barely get to know one another any other time of the year.”

“Oh dear,” said Bond. “Did mummy not buy you that chemistry set when you were ten?”

“Shut it, 007,” said Q.

There was a long moment of silence between them before Bond broke it: “I haven’t exchanged Christmas gifts with anyone in a very long time.”

“I seem to recall that you’re an orphan,” said Q. Bond nodded. “Rotten luck. But still… it’s better than having an aunt annually try to match you up with distant cousins.”

“You’re joking,” said Bond. Q looked over the rim of his glasses at him and Bond let out a low whistle. “Sorry, mate.”

“You’d think after six Christmases in a row, she’d hang it up, but no,” said Q with a resigned wistfulness. “Aunt Wilhelmina will have her way. Dreadful woman.”

“I imagine the Christmas dinners would be awful,” said Bond with a small shudder.

“Indeed,” said Q. “It’s also why I can’t stand Christmas carols. My family always seemed to butcher them. There was no getting away from it. It was as if all the Whos in Whoville had gone tone-deaf. The spirit was there, but the flesh was very very weak.” He paused and added: “And that was before everyone had a snootfull.”

“And you just slunk off into the corner somewhere and hid away,” said Bond. He pictured a mop-haired, gangly youth in short pants and a hideous Christmas jumper cowering under the stairs with his hands over his ears.

“I tried to stay away,” he said. “But I was eventually dragged into the maelstrom.”

“And forced to sing?”

“And forced to sing,” nodded Q. He was getting sleepy again and felt guilty about it. He shouldn’t be relating tales of Christmases past to agent 007, he should be booting up the modem to tell HQ where they were. But the fire was cheerful and the company relatively pleasant. They were alone and safe from the storm. The call to MI6 could wait a few hours. Bond had asked him something. “Hmm?”

“I was asking you about the carol- Hey, are you falling asleep?”

“I suppose I am,” said Q.

“Right then,” said Bond and he leaned over and took the beaker from Q. “Go on then.” He nodded toward the king sized bed in the room.

For a split panicked second, Q thought that Bond meant for both of them to share a room. It was only when Bond took his torch and bid Q goodnight at the door, did he realize that Bond was giving him this room. “Merry Christmas, Q,” said Bond.

“Merry Christmas, Bond.” He gathered the sheets and duvet about him and fell asleep to the sound of the fire in the grate and the rain at the windows.


	2. Chapter 2

A day had come and gone. The weather station was calling it the worst ice storm in recorded history. Word was coming in over the internet that the winds weren’t set to dissipate for at least another day. Until the weather cleared, MI6 couldn’t pull Q or Bond from the renovated former naval fort. The only positive side was that they wouldn’t starve. The kitchen was stocked with all kinds of canned and dried goods, more than enough for two people to live off of for the few days it seemed that they would be sitting there.

The next day, after achieving communication with MI6, Q attempted to fight his ennui with rummaging through every janitor’s cupboard and back room he could find in order to seek out the supplies he needed to repair the damaged component to the device in the case. The work would require a soldering gun, solder, and a very steady hand. There was more finely-tuned equipment at MI6 and had their rescue come sooner, Q would have waited. But it was too quiet and once the power was turned back on and communication restored, MI6 was no longer worried and all anyone could do was wait Mother Nature out.

For Bond’s part, he had cleaned his weapon four times, disappeared for hours at a time to heaven knew where, and was slowly helping himself through all the whiskey in the hotel. This increased the frequency of the Christmas carols he was singing and soon, the songs became a sort of game to him. He was bound and determined to find the one Christmas carol that Q couldn’t stand. And then he was determined to sing that one song until they were rescued.

Q locked the door to his room and dropped all the supplies he had scrounged from the various supply places tucked behind the scenes in the fancy hotel. It was a small miracle that he discovered a trove of plumbing supplies and electrical repair supplies in his search. He sorted everything he needed and plugged in the soldering gun. He opened the component carefully, removed the damaged parts with tweezers and-

“ _Good king Wenceslas came down…_ ” sang a familiar baritone outside his door. “ _…on the Feast of Stephen…_ ”

Q let out an exasperated sigh. “Find a different hobby, Bond,” called Q.

“ _…when the snow fell ‘round about…_ ” sang Bond, “ _…deep and crisp and even…_ ”

Q smirked. “I’m loathe to admit it, but I think you’re getting better,” he said. “You’re even getting all the words right.”

“Well you would know, choirboy,” said Bond.

“Shut up and go away,” said Q. He could hear a subtle rattling at the keyhole. “What are you doing, Bond?” The rattling continued until there was a soft click and Bond was in the room.

“ _Feliz navidad…_ ” he boomed. “ _...prospero año y felicidad…_ ”

“Piss off!”

Bond grinned. “Come on, Q! You’ve got to tell me what your least favorite carol is.”

“Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”

“Because I’m your favorite secret agent?” offered Bond.

“No. Go away.”

Bond was silent for an entire twenty seconds and Q was fool enough to begin to fit back the broken pieces into the device. “ _Silver bells…_ ” sang Bond suddenly, startling Q and causing him to drop the piece deep into the device.

“God damn it, Bond!” cried Q.

Bond laughed. “S-sorry, Q.”

Q gave him a sour look. “Like hell you are.”

“Oh don’t be that way!” said Bond. “Did you know you’re adorable when you curse?” Another glare from Q made Bond chuckle. “Alright… I’ll make you a deal: I’ll stop singing if you’ll sing one for me.”

“Bond-“

“Very well… _Have a holly-jolly Christmas… it’s the best time of the year…_ ”

“Fuck,” mumbled Q. Bond broke into laughter again. “For the love of all that is holy, will you please just go read a book or something?!”

“Right,” said Bond, still laughing. He strode to the bookshelves that lined one corner of the bedroom and selected a book. He made himself comfortable in one of the chairs next to the fire and for a blissful couple of hours there was no sound save the turning pages in Bond’s book and what small noise Q’s efforts were making.

Q was all concentration as he attempted a delicate solder attachment on a sample piece of scrap metal. He wanted to be sure of his ability to create as fine a seam as he could. It was rough going and Q’s focus was extreme. More and more finely he created the thin molten metal in long strands, learning the properties and behaviors of it.

He sensed a presence over his shoulder and slowly looked up to see Bond incredibly close to him inspecting his work.

“Fine detail, Q,” murmured Bond. “You trying to create filigree or something?”

“Yes, Bond,” said Q, annoyed, “I thought that the component needed decorating.”

“When are you going to relax, Q?”

“When you stop-“

“No…,” said Bond. “Level with me: when are you going to relax?”

Q sighed. He put the soldering gun back in its stand and closed his eyes. “I want my life back, James,” said Q quietly.

“We’ve been gone a grand total of two days,” said Bond. “We’re set for food, shelter, electricity, MI6 knows where we are, we’re free to do as we wish here – save watch telly as there’s no cable – but we do have internet and there are hours of adorable kittens and pornography there. And… it’s New Year’s Eve today.”

“I don’t care,” said Q, ignoring Bond’s attempt at levity. “I just want to go home, to have familiar things around me again.” He felt a warm heavy hand rub between his shoulder blades reassuringly.

“London will stand,” said Bond. “As a matter of fact, London is at a standstill. With this weather, I’d rather be here than there. The whole city’s shut down. Nothing’s moving. You’d be just as bored in your flat or at Q Branch as you would here. May as well enjoy the exile.” He placed a small kiss to Q’s temple.

Q looked at him, shocked. “What was that for?”

“Just trying to be comforting,” explained Bond.

Q blinked. “Well… please refrain.”

“Speaking of refrains… “ said Bond.

“Don’t you dare!” said Q.

“ _I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…_ ”

_“James Bond!”_

 

~080~

 

One hour until midnight and the component was fixed. There was no way to test it, but Q was certain that his repairs were sufficient. Until it actually was tested, however, he was a bit on tenterhooks about the success of his repairs. He really hoped he hadn’t cocked up the whole mission for the sake of looking for things to do. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. Looking about, he didn’t see Bond, the agent having lost interest in trying to annoy him when Q decided to stab him with the soldering gun. He didn’t actually get him with it, but the sentiment of the action was effectively conveyed and Bond disappeared.

“James?” asked Q as he wandered out of his room and down the main corridor. He passed the lobby, the restaurant, another corridor of rooms, and when he got to the small gym, he discovered the agent hanging upside-down by his knees. He was shirtless and was bending himself double over and over. “Hanging sit-ups,” murmured Q. “Dear god. How revolting.” And yet, Q stood there taking in the view for several disgraceful minutes. Aunt Wilhelmina would have never approved. Then again, that silly woman thought Q was straight.

Beads of sweat dripped down Bond’s chest, pressed back into the skin on every flex of his torso, and created a sheen on his skin that Q just wanted to run a fingertip through. And perhaps scrub off with lots of soapy water. Bond’s muscles strained and his veins stood out from his skin. Q wondered how long he had been at this – and how much longer he could keep it up.

 It was a good job that Bond couldn’t see him from his standpoint because Q was getting uncomfortably and embarrassingly overheated. He beat a hasty retreat back to his room and flopped on the bed. Even though he stared at the ceiling, all he saw was Bond’s chest and thighs and arms… Suddenly, it was very warm. Q sat up and noticed too late that his trousers were inconveniently tight. He heard movement out in the corridor and realized that Bond was making his way back to his room humming a strain of “Christmas Song” made famous by some singing cartoon rodents. For a sick moment, he thought Bond was going to come into his own rooms and he made ready to spring over to the bathroom to gain time to hide his shame. Thankfully, he needn’t have worried. He heard the door opposite close and breathed a sigh of relief. He collapsed back on the bed and waited for his erection to subside.

This whole situation was becoming impossible; between the horrible Christmas carol onslaught and his body’s own betrayal, Q was certain his sanity was going to crack. He needed to go home - right now.

 

~080~

 

“Perhaps your tastes run a bit more traditional?” asked Bond as he joined Q in his rooms. There was no point in locking doors anymore.

Q sat in the small sofa facing the fire. He was trying to get through “A Christmas Carol” and had barely made it to Marley’s visit when the agent interrupted him. “Traditional?” asked Q. “What in hell are you on about, 007?”

“I mean, are you more of an “Away in a Manger” type or are you a “Jingle Bell Rock” sort of man?” he asked.

“Good God, when will you give up?” asked Q.

“I wasn’t trained to give up, Q,” said Bond. “It’s not a trait MI6 looks for in its operatives.”

“Pity,” muttered Q and went back to his book.

Bond plopped himself next to Q on the sofa. “So? Which is it then?” he asked.

“Which is what?” asked Q.

“Your favorite Christmas carol?” asked Bond.

“I thought your goal was to find out my least favorite carol and then torture me with it until transport arrives or I kill you, whichever came first.”

“You can’t kill me, Q,” said Bond.

“I can,” said Q.

“No… no I’m pretty sure you can’t,” said Bond. “And why would you want to? I mean, is that any way to begin the New Year?”

“The New Year doesn’t begin for another… three minutes,” said Q.

“And you’re going to murder me within the next three minutes?” said Bond. “Not bloody likely.”

“So torture by Christmas carol it is then. Terrific,” said Q with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Stop it, Scrooge,” said Bond. “Now confess: you do miss some of the holidays, don’t you? Whether it’s the candy canes, or the Christmas crackers… I bet you won’t be able to suppress a smile thinking of Aunt Wilhelmina in a paper crown, eh?” Bond saw the corners of Q’s mouth turn up. “I thought not.”

“Why is this so bloody important to you?” asked Q. “Look, I know you’re an orphan, but still – there had to be some good times?” Bond gazed upon him with quiet regard. “As bad as all that?” Bond continued to stare at him. “Jesus wept.”

“One minute to midnight,” said Bond. “Will you sing me into the New Year? Please?”

Q was quiet for a long time, staring into the fire. Bond gave him until ten seconds of midnight, opened his mouth to speak, and immediately shut it when he heard Q sing softly. It was a smooth, gentle sound, calming; Bond could see why his family made him sing. Q’s voice was beautiful.

Q’s eyes closed as he vocalized, relaxing into what was only annually familiar. He caressed the highs, sweetened the lows, and made rich that one note in the refrain, his voice falling into the rhythm and sentiment of the song and causing time itself to halt just a wee bit. He extended the experience by singing from memory the second verse. The grace notes at the coda were trilled perfectly and then he fell silent.

Bond sat perfectly still, the echo of the notes still ringing off the walls until only the crackle of the fire and the howl of the wind remained.

“Happy New Year, James,” whispered Q.

“Happy New Year, Q,” said Bond.


End file.
